


Faces Painted White by Midnight

by tocourtdisaster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, Spoilers for A Scandal in Belgravia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:37:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tocourtdisaster/pseuds/tocourtdisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, for his part, is left with an excess of adrenaline and no adequate outlet and he can’t help it: he starts to laugh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faces Painted White by Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “The Trapeze Swinger” by Iron & Wine.

The pool doors swing shut behind Moriarty and the laser sights wink out and Sherlock is left standing at the edge of the pool, still pointing John’s gun where Moriarty had last been standing, looking more confused than anything else.

John, for his part, is left with an excess of adrenaline and no adequate outlet and he can’t help it: he starts to laugh. It’s high-pitched and just this side of unhinged and he can’t stop. He almost _died_ tonight and now he can’t stop laughing and people think he’s the _normal_ one?

“John?” 

It takes him a second, but he realizes that Sherlock is not only talking to him, but has crouched down beside him, gun nowhere in sight, looking for all the world like he’s actually worried and that makes John’s stomach tie itself into knots even as he continues to laugh.

“Sorry, I know, but I can’t,” John gasps out between giggles, clutching at the changing stall wall so hard his knuckles start to hurt, but it’s better than clinging to Sherlock’s bony knees, which are pressed right up against the outside of John’s thigh.

The laughter ends as suddenly as it began, but John still can’t get his breath back. He’s gasping shallowly enough that he knows he’s not getting enough oxygen, but he can’t stop, can’t slow his breathing to something closer to normal and _fuck_ he almost _died_ tonight.

“John, you need to take deep breaths,” Sherlock says, commands really, and John distantly notes that Sherlock has shuffled around so he’s crouching in front of John and is gripping John’s upper arms hard enough that John’s sure he’ll find bruises there later. “Breathe.”

There are black spots starting to encroach on John’s field of vision and he’s hyperventilating and he can’t stop and Sherlock shakes him roughly once and then again and then “Dammit, John, _stop_ ” and John’s going to pass out, he knows he is.

Sherlock’s hand against his cheek is warm and leaves a blistering heat behind and the sudden shock of being slapped is enough to force John’s body to gasp a deeper breath than he’d been managing. Each breath after that comes easier, slower, deeper, and after an eternity, John’s heart rate is back to something approaching normal and his lungs don’t feel like they’re being constricted by an iron band.

“Thanks,” John eventually says. His knees are beginning to scream in protest at his continued crouching position, but Sherlock’s hands are still on his arms and John thinks those two points of contact may be the only things keeping him grounded, so he firmly pushes his discomfort aside and focuses on his breathing.

“Any time,” Sherlock says. Other than the spasmodic twitching of his fingers, he is completely still, his gaze firmly unmoving on where Moriarty’s earpiece is still protruding from John’s collar.

They’re still in the same position when Mycroft’s people, locked and loaded with far too many weapons for John’s comfort, finally storm the sport’s center. John slowly, slowly pushes himself to his feet, wincing as every one of his joints from his waist down cracks and groans. The wire is removed from his person and a blanket placed around his shoulders and he clutches the edges of it and lets Sherlock’s grip on his arm lead him out into the night air.


End file.
